


The Salt of Fallen Worlds

by dustlines



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel (Supernatural) is Not Okay, Dean Winchester Takes Care of Castiel, Friendship, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hurt Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Other, Purgatory, Season/Series 08, Surreal, Survivalist Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-26
Updated: 2012-09-26
Packaged: 2020-06-30 02:44:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19843927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustlines/pseuds/dustlines
Summary: In this place, even the buildings were once alive, and there's something Castiel won't stop thanking Dean for.Excerpt:Castiel's shoulder blades can be read beneath his clothes like lines on a map, peeking through the soft cloth of a very well-worn, tan overcoat. Although Dean's been suspecting for a while that there's something really wrong with the angel, only here in Purgatory has he started to see the full brunt of Castiel's self-destructive tendencies.(Purgatory!fic, written pre-s08)





	The Salt of Fallen Worlds

**Author's Note:**

> Digital art by the supremely talented and incredibly kind [the_poette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepoette/), an inspiration in so many ways. Original post for this art found [here](https://thepoette.tumblr.com/post/50562935407/goodbye-season-gr8-i-just-finished-this-piece).

* * *

It's nearing sunset when Dean and Castiel stumble through one of Purgatory's many abandoned cities, the silhouettes of oceanside shops stark against a lilac and black sky. Castiel's arm weighs heavily against Dean's shoulders as they struggle over the splintered, bent planks of a rotting boardwalk, the angel's muffled breaths of pain hot against Dean's shoulder. One of his wings is shredded almost beyond recognition, not that Dean can see it now that Castiel has hidden his wings away, but the memory of the torn appendage still makes Dean's stomach churn uncomfortably.

"Hang in there." Dean grits his teeth, to which Castiel nods without speaking, the angel's eyes bloodshot and half-shut. He can't quite seem to order his footsteps, so Dean is leading them both. "We're almost there. I think it's just up ahead."

Rows of collapsed, decaying storefronts line the boardwalk to their left, while to their right stretches an acidic, ash gray ocean, churning and hissing with steam. The acid has melted the dark blue sand of the shoreline into glossy swirls of black glass, while in the distance, the chained forms of massive, whale-like creatures intermittently drift to the ocean's surface to let out tortured screams just before being dragged back under. Castiel has said these creatures are harmless but cannot be helped, that their penance in this place is endless.

"All right, Cas." Shivering from a cold breeze coming in from across the water, Dean tries to control how slowly he sets Castiel down just inside a doorway full of rubble, where they'll be at least partially hidden from the creatures that dart intermittently through the city. "I got you here. What now?"

"Yes. Thank you, Dean," Castiel rasps with a voice that sounds in desperate need of water. Seeming to be having trouble coordinating his limbs, he leans against what's left of the storefront before the ocean and shuts his eyes, though his hand waves to indicate a pile of broken things in the left side of the shop. "Under that pile. Look for a... a door... or a hatch. Something that would conceal—"

"I gotcha, Cas. Take five while I look."

"Five?" Castiel's voice is a weak echo of its usual strength, brought down to its knees like the vessel that carries him. The shadows of the tiny shop full of rotting wooden shelves and twisted metal poles paint unrecognizable curves into Castiel's face, the waxy paleness of his skin better suiting a drowned man than an angel.

"It means forget about everything else." Before Dean goes into the rocks and sand and general mess of the broken shop, he crouches to touch the side of Castiel's neck, where the fluttering pulse of a heartbeat trembles under the angel's skin. "Right now, just focus on breathing. Do this: in," he demonstrates with an inhale, which Castiel mimics as Dean exhales, "and out. And again."

Castiel flashes a guilty, but grateful smile at him, lungs seeming like they're straining to hold up his ribcage. "The air isn't pleasant here."

"I know. It's pretty rank." Purgatory's atmosphere seems perpetually saturated with the scents of decaying flesh, stale bread, and gasoline, making it hard for even Dean, who isn't even all that injured right now, to fill his lungs without pain. He squeezes Castiel's shoulder as he stands to walk away from him. "Still, I know you can do it."

"Thank you."

"Stop thanking me." Cold air stings Dean's nose when he breathes, his leather jacket not offering enough protection against the elements. Moving as quickly and as quietly as he can afford, he bends to move a boulder that's gritty and damp with wet sand. "Man, I don't know about you," he grunts, shoving the rock to the side and reaching for the next one, "but I'm really starting to hate this place."

The sound of falling pebbles accompanies Cas's shallow breathing as he, despite being comfortably braced, slowly sinks down to lay on his side, facing the roar of the distant, gray-black ocean. "I'm slowing you down." A minute or so passes, Dean focused on removing rubble and so not watching the sudden, rapid rise and fall of Castiel's chest, though he does notice the gravel in Cas's voice when Cas adds, "We should consider letting me die. I have a history of coming back, and I could possibly return strong enough to free us."

Dean's heart crashes through his stomach, a surge of icy dread running up his throat. He swallows, looking briefly at the defeated slump of Castiel's back. The angel's shoulder blades can be read beneath his clothes like lines on a map, peeking through the soft cloth of a very well-worn, tan overcoat. Although Dean's been suspecting for a while that there's something really wrong with the angel, only here in Purgatory has he started to see the full brunt of Castiel's self-destructive tendencies.

Dean shuts his eyes, taking a deep breath and wishing he had Sam's instinctive ability to talk people away from the ledges they build in their own minds. Though Dean has no way of knowing if his brother's even okay — a fact that stings deep in his gut to even consider — Dean can't help but hold onto the hope that Sam is working on a way to get him and Cas out of here. Even for a hunter trained to kill and an angel used to war, Purgatory is not a kind place, and they're wearing thin.

Dean keeps moving through the dirt of a fallen civilization. "We've been over this." He hauls the scraping, massive corpses of rusted pipes out of his way, kicking them to the side with boots that have been all over the place. "'Possibly' isn't gonna cut it, so don't go there."

Cas huffs a breath that sounds disturbingly amused. He doesn't seem strong enough to even lift his head from the ashy, gray-blue sand. "Our options are somewhat limited here, Dean."  
  
"Then we'll make up some new options!" Dean snaps. "Last I checked, we're pretty good at that!" A half-buried pipe is giving him trouble, and he yanks at it until his hands are red and tingling, sharp with pain. "I don't want the kind of help that gets you killed, and you shouldn't, either!" The pipe swings loose and he hurls it out of the shop, letting it shoot sand into the air where it lands.  
  
Castiel sighs, softly. "You're being very loud."  
  
This shuts Dean up, and he glances around to check for unwanted attention, shoulders already preemptively crouched for what might linger beyond his and Castiel's ramshack little outpost. Although some of the creatures here are mere illusions, most are not, and there's no way to tell until they attack. Dean has given up trying to predict the creatures on his own, just knows to get out his knife and start slashing everywhere when Castiel screams his name.  
  
There's nothing immediately visible, only Castiel's fragile, immobile form up against the distant, churning ocean. As Dean watches, Castiel's hand lifts from the wooden planks of the boardwalk. Bits of stone and sand rumble through the angel's fingertips, the destroyed leftovers of a decaying city. When his palm is emptied, he drops it again with a sigh that shudders through his entire body.  
  
"Dean," he whispers. His voice is barely audible over the sound of shifting rubble and the slight distance between them. "The matter does bare..." He takes a deep breath, still struggling to breathe, "...consideration. Look at me. I'm unable to even—"  
  
"How many times do I have to repeat myself? NO, Cas. It's not okay for you to die as a _strategy_." Dean fights the urge to stop digging through rubble and come over to slam Castiel into the ground, not really knowing how else to get the de-powered angel to come to his senses a little. The sky outside the small shop is getting progressively darker, a sign that the creatures living here may begin to increase in frequency, and Dean has not had enough sleep to deal with any of this. He wipes away the sweat on his brow, inhaling the dying city's scent and feeling it cake the skin of his ribs. "We're going to find another way."  
  
Castiel's breathing is labored when he protests, gasping between his words, "There are... others here... who'd help you."  
  
Dean grits his teeth against the lump starting to blister in his throat. "I don't give a crap! If I have to live in this lint trap, I'd rather it be with you than some skeevy, red-eyed monster."  
  
"How can you be so sure?"  
  
"Because whether you're powerful enough to get us out of here or not, you're my friend, dumbass!" With a grunt, Dean shoves another boulder to the side. "I barely just got you back! Do you really think I want to—" Abruptly, his shouting dies in his throat. Beneath the boulder he's just moved is a dented, metal trapdoor, covered in rust. Dizziness almost brings him to his knees, and he braces his palms on his thighs to keep standing.  
  
"Dean?" Cas mumbles, distractedly, no doubt wanting to know what has made Dean stop mid-sentence. From the distant shoreline, the ocean hisses under the angel's voice, bringing in the moaning sounds of the almost dead creatures floating inside of the acid waves. They have both learned to dismiss this phenomenon as disturbing, but generally harmless. A lot of Purgatory is all about the mindgames, like a cat toying with its food before it eats it.  
  
"Cas, you son of a bitch," Dean breathes, staggering back. Until this moment, he hadn't really been sure he could believe Castiel's testament that there was a shelter here, the angel's senses so mangled by his wings being in the state they were in. Finally, a spark of hope in this awful, godforsaken place. "You were right!"  
  
When Dean crouches, his knife is just thin enough to fit into the slat between the trapdoor and its surrounding hinges. With some clever maneuvering, he pries open the trapdoor with a creak of ancient metal, dropping flakes of rust down the shadowy stairs beneath. His own arms and legs weak with relief, he comes back to Castiel and kneels behind the angel's back, laying a hand on his friend's ribcage for support. Castiel's bones feel too close to the surface, fragile and lightly draped with skin and cloth. In response, Cas looks over his shoulder at Dean, his face tight with pain.  
  
"We need to get something straight here," Dean angles his chin to keep Castiel's gaze locked with his. "Without you, I would've walked right by this dump." Though his tone is sharp, Dean keeps his grip as soothing as possible as he helps Castiel into an upright position. Once they're sitting face-to-face, Dean brushes pebbles out of Castiel's hair, letting them rain to the ground, eye contact still held between them. "Do you _really_ think you're not helping me here?"  
  
Without answering, Castiel looks away, eyes downcast. He reaches forward and lightly clutches a fistful of Dean's shirt, his body tense with the knowledge that they're about to stand up. Not for the first time, Dean wonders just how much movement must be hurting him. The hour they spent making their way towards this place must have been torturous.  
  
Careful not to jar his friend more than he has to, Dean presses his chin against Castiel's shoulder and slips his arms around his waist. Close enough to feel Castiel's sluggish heartbeat, Dean runs cautious hands up and down Castiel's back, feeling for the space where he'd seen a broken wing jutting out earlier that day. Castiel makes a confused noise but doesn't protest, his hands coming up to lightly grasp the back of Dean's jacket. As Dean continues to touch him gently, Castiel buries his face against the hunter's shoulder. He seems relieved to have another moment to prepare himself for the effort to stand, his breathing leveling out as they sit together in the ruins of a dead city.  
  
Dean remembers the tearing, the awful crack and pop and _slice_ of some shadow thing plunging its fist into Castiel's back and _ripping_ , Castiel's scream bursting out like a nuclear blast. Dean had barely made it to Castiel's side in time to plunge the demon-killing knife into the goddamned thing's eyeball before Castiel's wing was at risk of being fully pulled off, as Dean had learned later, as he held a shaking, mumbling, near-unresponsive Castiel in his arms.  
  
His shuddering gradually evening out along with his breathing, Castiel sags against Dean's body. "I'm all right, Dean." He exhales, the warmth of his breath stretching through Dean's collar and sinking into his bones. "I can stand."  
  
Dean frowns, deeply. "No, you can't. I'm gonna carry you." Castiel's body feels overly hot, and is getting heavier against him with every breath. "You ready?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Well, suck it up, 'cause we're doing this." He stops searching for injuries and simply surrounds Castiel's body with his arms, squeezing him briefly. Before Castiel can catch on to being hugged, Dean maneuvers one arm around Castiel's back and the other under his knees. Pushing up from gravity, Dean hefts the angel's weight from the ground.  
  
Castiel grunts, his eyes rolling back into his skull. "Sh-Shit," he hisses, his head slamming hard against Dean's shoulder against pain that must be incredible.  
  
Dean can't help it: he chokes down a laugh, and then immediately feels sick about it, like someone's just come up and whacked a guilt-shaped gun against his temple. "Oh god, sorry," he says, as he starts to walk them forward, "When did you start saying things like that?" They've clearly been spending too much time together if Castiel's started to develop a bad language habit.  
  
A moment after, with a slow, careful sigh, Castiel says, with a tight voice, "It felt appropriate. Everything about this place is unpleasant."  
  
Struggling to carry the weight of a full-grown man... angel... vessel... whatever, Dean makes his way over rubble and shifting sand, approaching the trapdoor while trying not to slip on the gritty floor. "Yeah, well, I'm not gonna argue about that. This place sucks."  
  
"Amen," Castiel mutters, and Dean can't for the life of him figure out if Castiel's being sarcastic or not. It's hard to tell nowadays when Castiel starts using religious words.  
  
Descending the stairs carefully, Dean sinks his foot into the shadows leading down from the rusted trapdoor. Reaching up once they're low enough on the staircase, Dean pulls the door shut with a scraping bang of metal and a twist of a brass latch to lock it, plunging them into almost total darkness. Heart pounding, Dean juggles Castiel's body so that he can get a flashlight out of the leather of his jacket pocket. When the flashlight's on, gold light flares down the staircase, capturing the white of dust motes in its path. The weight of Castiel's arm tightens around his neck, hesitant and unsure, and Dean lets the angel cling without comment.  
  
"Okay, so just double-checking," Dean says, his voice only slightly strained from the effort to carry another person to the bottom of a staircase, and a very narrow one, too, "but you're sure there's nothing's down here that's gonna kill us, right?"  
  
Castiel nods vaguely, his hair, which is miraculously still soft and clean-smelling, tickling against Dean's stubbled chin. "Yes," he mumbles. He seems too exhausted to struggle against Dean's hold on him, only to accept it wordlessly as needed. "It's empty."  
  
The stairwell seems to be a fairly long one, and Dean has to walk sideways to keep Castiel's head and feet from banging into the walls. There's a chill in the darkness, and Dean, damp with sweat and mud from running around so much, shudders vaguely. Castiel, on the other hand, doesn't seem to care about the plummet in temperature, though Dean guesses the angel has bigger concerns to worry about, like the fact that his entire body seems to be progressively shutting down as their stay in Purgatory keeps getting longer and longer. Dean doesn't even know how long they've been here.  
  
"Four months."  
  
"What?" At the bottom of the stairs is a small, stonewalled room containing a series of knocked-over metal shelves, and Dean's mouth starts salivating when he realizes there are what look like cans of food beneath them. He doesn't know why there are cities in Purgatory when there don't even seem to have ever been people living in them, but he's grateful for the shadows of civilization they sometimes stumble upon here. "Cas, are you poking around in my head again?"  
  
"It's not my intention to. Some of it's just... slipping through."  
  
"Oh. Well, sorry for all the crap you're gonna see in there, I guess." Castiel doesn't respond as Dean gently puts him down in a corner, letting the angel take his time sliding his arms off of Dean's neck. When the angel is down, braced on both sides by separate walls, Dean pats Castiel's cheek lightly, noting that the angel's eyes have slipped shut. "Hey. You still with me?" He sharpens his tone, "Cas!"  
  
Castiel's eyes jolt open, his irises flying back from somewhere rolled back in his skull. His pupils are tiny pricks in the beam of Dean's flashlight, full of slowly-fading alarm. "Your inquiry — it's because the cities themselves are ghosts."  
  
"Uhh... okay?"  
  
"When a city of great magnitude dies," Castiel continues after a moment, his hands scratching through the dust on the floor, "it has to go somewhere."  
  
Dean is not sure why this explanation makes him nervous. "A city isn't a living thing, Cas."  
  
"But Dean, aren't they?"  
  
Unable to tell if Cas is having another crazy moment or if this is a genuine statement of fact, Dean chooses to simply rub the tiny hairs on his friend's neck and then hand him the flashlight. Castiel takes the light without question, shining it in Dean's direction as Dean stands up.  
  
"I think there's food in here." Dean strolls towards the cans on the floor, his back lit golden and flickering with shadows. "I don't know where to start. This stuff could be ancient."  
  
"I don't require anything." The flashlight beam trembles, as good an indicator of Castiel's well-being as anything else Dean could have thought of on such short notice.  
  
"Like hell, you don't." Dean crouches to haul a toppled metal shelf to the side, bracing it against the wall with a banging of metal he tries very hard to muffle. He doesn't want to attract anything here, after all. Once sure the shelf won't fall on him, he ducks and begins shuffling through the cans. Some of them are rusty, and others are not. There are words printed on the cans, but Dean can't read them. They seem to be in English, but it's like he can't focus on them.  
  
"It's like how you would read in a dream," Castiel whispers, and he sounds nervous. Castiel should never sound like that. It just isn't right. "You can tell you're seeing words, but when you look harder, you can't tell what they are."  
  
"Cas," Dean groans, "get out of my head, already."  
  
"I can't." Castiel's voice rasps over dry lips. "I don't seem to have any control. I'm sorry. This place is..." Apparently at a loss for words, the flashlight bobs as he swallows. "...tiresome. Regardless of your protests, it's entirely possible I'm going to die here."  
  
"You know what? Shut up." Several cans gathered close to his chest, Dean comes back to Cas and slumps down beside him. "You are not going to die here." The angel's temperature seems to have risen, and rides in waves across Dean's arm where they are pressed together. Once thinking he was too cold in the underground shelter, Dean now wishes he still was.  
  
"It still may be our best option." Castiel's voice is quiet, full of strain, and lost.  
  
"Damn it, Cas! Do I need to start keeping you away from sharp objects and your own pant strings? Because so help me, if I start thinking I have to, I will. Even here." Dean can't help how his voice tightens at the end, unable to find where his teasing ends and his actual fears for Castiel's life begins. The look of confusion in Castiel's eyes at Dean's declaration is nowhere near as funny as it usually is, and before Cas can ask what pant strings have to do with anything, or, worse, before the angel can reach into his head and find out exactly what he means, Dean hurries to add, "Look, we'll figure something out. In the meanwhile," Dean pulls a knife from his jean pocket, "can you manage your angel mojo, tell us if any of these are safe?" He lets his tone soften, just a bit, as he adds, "If you can't, we can just take our chances."  
  
Castiel's focus drifts to Dean's lap of canned food. "I will make an attempt." Nodding, he lifts a hand over the cans of food, his other hand still gripping the flashlight. When a steep wrinkle appears between his eyes and Castiel's hand starts to shake, Dean clasps a hand on Castiel's shoulder and helps him ride out the pain.  
  
Finally, Castiel lowers his hand with a steep breath. He then begins tossing cans of food to the side. "Not these," he mumbles, until there are only two cans left, which he points at while leaning against Dean's side. " _These_."  
  
"Awesome." Shifting against Castiel's weight on his arm, Dean takes the flashlight from the angel's shaking hands, setting it down on the stone floor instead. Dean then maneuvers his knife to begin cutting open the first can.  
  
Inside the can are green beans, lit up by the sideways beam of light hitting Dean and Castiel's legs. Castiel stares down into the can, his lips tight with pain. Dean stabs his knife into the green bean juice, scraping a few green stalks out like his knife is a fork. He holds the knife out to Castiel, who carefully uses his teeth to pull off the food. He chews, quietly, his face full of self-loathing as Dean scoops out some of the green beans for himself. They go back and forth like that for a little while until Castiel's expression softens and he just accepts the food he evidently needs now. It's actually not bad-tasting, if a bit sharp and excessively salty. If Castiel has to eat now, he could do far worse.  
  
The second can, Dean decides to save for later, so he leans over to set it down on the other side of Castiel's legs, against the wall. Leaning back, he lifts an arm so that Castiel can settle under it, Dean finding that the angel feels even more overly warm when pressed against Dean's ribs and beating heart. Squeezing Castiel's shoulders briefly, Dean stretches out his legs and crosses them at the ankles.  
  
"I'll take first watch," he says, settling in against the stone wall and trying to convince himself he's more comfortable than he really is. "Get some sleep." He expects Castiel to protest, perhaps claim he doesn't need sleep either, but the angel only nods mildly.  
  
Castiel quiets, his bones settling into the hold of Dean's arm like water seeping into deep cracks. "I think the food is helping," he says, but doesn't sound completely sure. Still, a step forward is a step forward, and Dean will take anything he can get in this ruthless place.  
  
"That's good," Dean replies, not sure if he's imagining that Castiel maybe does feel like he's slightly less on fire beneath Dean's arm. "Maybe when you wake up, your wings'll be better, too."  
  
"Perhaps." Castiel sounds like he's afraid to have hope in such a thing, though his lips do quirk slightly. However, the expression quickly fades. "Dean, I—"  
  
"No." They've had far too many conversations that begin with that tone of voice, talks of guilt and a need to seek redemption that, as far as Dean's concerned, aren't necessary anymore, if they ever even were. "Look, whatever it is, it can wait. Go to sleep, Cas." Not really wanting to but knowing he has to conserve battery life, Dean reaches for the flashlight and turns it off.  
  
As the room plunges into darkness, Castiel relaxes his head against Dean's shoulder. The sound of their breathing seems magnified in the sudden dark, as well as the distant hiss of the ocean above them, so Dean hears Castiel crystal clear as the angel breathes "Thank you." against his collarbone.  
  
Dean huffs, rubbing sweat from his forehead and thinking how ridiculous his life must be to end up trapped in Purgatory with a broken-winged angel he just shared a can of green beans with. "I thought I told you to stop saying that."  
  
"You did," Castiel says, with a trace of awe that betrays his amazement that Dean still seems to value his company, against all odds. "But I decided to ignore you."  
  
Dean laughs, and it's a good feeling. "Well, who am I to argue with that logic?"  
  
Castiel's voice is weak but very, very solemn when he replies, quietly in the darkness that surrounds them, "You are my favorite person."  
  
Dean swallows, sobered up. He's fairly sure Castiel can hear his echoing thought that Cas is definitely one the best angels out there, and feels horribly awkward about it. Trusting Castiel not to comment on that embarrassing admission, Dean moves them away from the topic by saying, "Just go to sleep, Cas."  
  
Barely any time at all passes before Castiel does just that, Dean's arm a warm half-circle around his shoulders. The angel's breathing shallows out, body relaxing utterly in the shadowy space, sleep hopefully carrying him on his way to healing.  
  
His friend warm against his side, an acidic ocean above them, and the taste of a dead world's leftover food leaving salt on their tongues, Dean stares into the darkness and waits to find out if things will be better when Castiel wakes up.

.

2012.09.26  
[.](https://dustlines.livejournal.com/808.html)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I'm in the process of transferring over a bunch of my fanworks to this site, so if you liked this story, please consider subscribing to my profile to get updates when I upload others like it!
> 
> Thank you. 💙


End file.
